Balls
A pale moon stains the dark. I’m going on a social distance date with Ari Castleman, a man I met at a Zoom Singles Book Party. For weeks we zoomed, and each week a florist delivered gorgeous white roses and the card was signed Love, Ari. We had many wonderful discussions about books, and music. Though he’s hard of hearing, and his Greek accent thick, easily he discussed a range of literary giants from Shakespeare to Milton, to Coleridge. When he suggested that we social distance in person and dine at an outdoor café two blocks from my house, I agreed.
For months I haven’t been out and tonight it’s fun dressing in my black pants suit, black bowler hat, a huge white silk rose pinned to its side, and a black lace mask.
Outside, the twilight is lavender color and a layer of mist spreads along the impending dark. Carefully, I walk on my ankle high heel black suede boots.I don’t want my heels to get caught in the cracks, and walking downhill takes some balancing.
At the Italian Café and under a purple awning, Ari waits. Smaller than he appeared on Zoom, his thin body bent over like a question mark, a huge puff of dyed black hair covers his rather large head. Above his black mask, his dark sharp eyes follow me as I hurry towards the table.
At least six feet apart, we press our hands to our hearts, saying how glad we are to meet each other in person. “A shame we can’t hug,” he says. At the table, he orders a round of Lemon drop martinis and roast chicken and vegetables.
I lift my mask to sip the martini, enjoying the quick hot buzz. He removes his mask, gulps his drink, and orders another round of drinks. His mouth is wide and you don’t see his teeth when he talks or smiles. We talk about the pandemic, then about books we’re reading, but he’s hard of hearing and I can’t see well enough to read lips, so we’re yelling at each other. Each time I take a bite of the chicken, I lift the mask, while Ari eats swiftly and neatly. He talks about his wife, who died barely six months ago. They had been married forty- two years. “Wow. I can’t even last a weekend,” I say. “That’s because you haven’t met me,” he adds.
With a bend of a thin authoritative finger, he gestures for the waiter who is wearing a wrinkled loose mask and hurries to our table. In French, Ari orders a jumbo cheese tray. Two tired looking waiters wheel out a cart with a huge glass dome, and inside are teeny pieces of cheese laid out on tiny dishes. Ari chooses several cheese plates and another round of espressos and cookies.
“I can’t figure you out,” he says, after a long silence. “I’m a handsome wealthy man. Women love me. Yet, you don’t call, answer my notes, and don’t give me the time of day. You must have someone else.”
“No,” I say. “You think so because I don’t fall over you?”
“Yes,” he replies vigorously. “I think you’re clever and conniving. I’ve read the sex scenes in your books. No one can write those if you don’t have them going on. Why can’t you stay overnight with me? We can wear masks.” He pauses, as if reflecting. “I’ll be careful. I’m still virile. You’re the first woman I want sex with since my wife died.”
“Well, I’m not interested in a relationship right now,” I say.
“All you older ladies say that. Which means you are.”
“It’s dangerous to have sex right now, anyway.”
“Semen carries the virus. “I’ll show you how to have sex with my balls. It’s safe. I’ll take you to Niverna.”
“I’ve had it with the balls,” I say to Janet on the phone, an hour later. “Another mental. His wife’s body barely cold and he’s pushing the balls.”
“Women are used to dumbing down for these dudes. It’s a sexist world.”
“Sexist and ageist,” I agree. “Even the ugly ones are pushing their body parts. Better they should donate their organs to those who can use them.”
“Marian Hoffman’s new guy talk about ugly takes her to Mings for dinner and then expects her to blow his balls. Women have to stop giving away their power. Especially women who fear age, who fear if they don’t they won’t have a man.”
In my dream I stay behind the wall, peeking through a tiny hole. When you peek through the hole you can see the man in the garden. He’s a beautiful man, silver hair, long eyelids. As he reads his book, his strong hand gently turns the page. I try to make ou the title on the book, but a bird swoops by and a shadow covers the hole. I hope I meet the man again.
BarbaraRoseBrooker is a SF native author of thirteen books. Her latest novel, Love, Sometimes was published Feb 2020, by Post Hill Press/Simon Schuster. She is working on The Corona Diaries And Other Things. Her national podcast The Rant,and her TV appearances are on you tube, and on www.barbararosebrooker.com
